Get Out If You Can

Emilie | Princess-Not-So-Princessy

I'm mindlessly scrolling down on my phone, reading the local news, as Maman whips up some delicious-smelling croissants on the kitchen table. October is far from over, and for some reason that's nagging me like nothing else ever has.

There isn't anything about the month that nags me, in truth — it's just this. The deliberate randomness of the entire thing. Our area's not even caught up in a storm with the vandalism, it's happened many times before — but that doesn't stop people from being curious. Especially considering the very interesting 'connections'. It's not really the whole 'Caitlyn' thing. That's happened many times before.

The real reason why people are whispering is because of us.

I straighten the scanty pleats on the front of my short skirt, thinking. This had happened before, but...something about this time didn't agree with me in that way. Earlier it had been friends and family. This time it was a weird bunch of kids who may or may not have been involved with her.

The day it happened is clear in my head. Well, almost. With so many versions of the truth popping up, it's hard to tell what's real and what's not. From what I remember, Aria had just announced she was leaving, from outside our house. After she left, I went back to my room to get some homework done — and then Maman screamed.

Well, whatever. No one else is freaking out about it, so I shouldn't either. I dab on a bit more cherry pink lip gloss, and smooth my honey-colored bangs behind my ears. That's the thing, my hair is the only thing on the planet that looks good irrespective of season, mood or weather. I set it into position and walk towards the granite kitchen table, the sugary smell of chocolate croissants wafting by.

"Emilie." Maman looks at me like she has been looking at me since that afternoon when she went out and spotted great red smears on the cream wall. I try to look normal. It isn't difficult, after all the practice I have.

"Oui?"

"How are you feeling?"

I close my eyes and squeeze them hard. "Je vais bien," I say, in barely a whisper. "Everything's fine."

"Bien." She scoops up five croissants and sets them on my plate.

"Maman, I can't eat all of those," I say, daintily picking up the smallest croissant and stuffing it in my mouth. The sugar stings my tongue, but the warm chocolate soothes me as it melts in my mouth. "Très délicieux, though."

She gives me a warm — and almost sympathetic — smile. "Where are you going, again?"

"Kat's house," I say, picking up my pastel blue purse. "Gotta go, Maman. Be back soon."

"Take care, okay?" She gives me a lingering hug. "I-look, téléphone-moi s'il y a un problème."

"I'll do that." I straighten my skirt, practice my I'm-not-flustered smile, and head out the door.

***

"Emilieyyy!" Katherine comes hurtling out her door, and the way she does it, with arms outstretched, tells me that a good game of beer pong is already well underway. I try to reciprocate her greeting with equal enthusiasm, and I fail, as usual. I can't keep up with that kind of energy. I know because I've spent my life trying to.

She hands me a glass of amber liquid, and I take a tiny sip, scanning the surroundings for a bush I can feed the alcohol to later. "Hey," I say.

"Everyone's waiting for you inside," she says, winking. I want to tell her that her stick-on-eyelashes aren't done right at all, but you don't say that sort of thing to the person who invited you.

She takes my hand and leads me into the house like I'm a prized poodle or something, and like a prized poodle, I follow.

The interior of her house has changed immensely since the last time I was here, which was maybe a week ago. Stocks must probably be going up. That always gives her parents an excuse to redo the entire living room, again.